


Echoes of Christmas Past

by argyle4eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Christmas, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock find themselves helping Mycroft in an oddly familiar setting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written to go out with my card for this year's [Sherlock Seattle card exchange](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/ssfce2014), posted publicly now that Christmas has arrived and everyone in the exchange has (I hope!) received their cards. 
> 
> I'd had the idea of putting the lads in Victorian clothing a couple of months ago, to match the vintage-Holmes theme [of my cards](http://sherlock-seattle.tumblr.com/post/105469290998/its-the-sherlock-seattle-festival-card-exchange) (the first image in the set) this year . . . then the Moftiss beat me to the punch with that [now-famous promo pic](http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv/sherlock-special-promo-photo-fans-grasping-clues-article-1.2024931). I'm sure it undercuts my claim to have thought of this independently, but on the other hand it provides a wonderful (canon!) illustration for my fic, so I'm not complaining."

John's upper lip itched; he twitched it irritably. _I think I'm allergic to spirit gum. Bugger._ His reflection in the mirror wiggled its ridiculous fake handlebar mustache in response. _I look like I should be saying_ guv'nor _a lot,_ he thought. His costume was very . . . brown. Victorian. Tweedy. And bowler-hat-y. _Why am I doing this again?_

***

It was Mycroft's fault, in fact. He was the one who showed up, metaphorical hat in hand, seeking his brother's help. There was some especially sensitive government information that had got onto a thumb drive and was in the process of being sold to the highest bidder, etc., etc.

“Boring,” Sherlock had declared, plucking his violin's D-string for emphasis.

“You'll be going undercover,” Mycroft said, as if he hadn't heard. “In fact, you'll be playing your violin as part of your disguise”

Sherlock cocked his head and stilled the D-string's buzz.

“There will be costumes,” Mycroft continued, and John saw the glint of real interest in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock loved dressing up. John's internal alarms began going off.

“Speaking of costumes, the last time we helped you with a missing thumb drive, I ended up modeling the latest fashion in Semtex. I'd rather not do it again, thanks,” John said, in a bid for attention, but it was too late. Both brothers ignored him – Sherlock because he was intrigued, and Mycroft because he knew he had Sherlock hooked.

“Continue,” Sherlock said, setting the violin aside and steepling his fingers.

***

“Ah, good, you're ready,” Sherlock said, opening John's bedroom door without knocking. John didn't even bother correcting him. Sherlock was in full Victorian costume as well – suit, waistcoat, and silk top hat. _As if he needed to be any taller._

“You look like an undertaker,” John said, and was rewarded with a small, appreciative quirk of Sherlock's lips. 

“And you look like a doctor,” Sherlock responded. “Still, I suppose we'll make do. Got your revolver?”

“Pistol,” John corrected, patting the familiar weight under his jacket, “yeah.”

“Then the game is on!”

***

“Why do you need us?” John asked. “Don't you have . . . _people_ for this sort of thing?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Mycroft said, forced to acknowledge John at last. “But since whoever has hacked our system no doubt has access to our personnel files, there will be a very good chance they can recognize our 'regulars.' Hence the need to recruit outside help, as it were. Even I will have to be discreet on-site.”

***

 

Mycroft's getup was worth a double-take: mutton-chop whiskers and what must be a theatrical fat-suit underneath his Victorian garb. He was almost unrecognizable, but even so he was staying out of sight as much as possible. Both John and Sherlock were issued a tiny earplug and inside-the-collar microphone – very James Bond, historical getup aside – for communications purposes.

“Still no idea who we're looking for at this do?” John asked, fitting his earplug.

“None,” Mycroft said, with a lemon-sucking expression. “We've issued Wexford a valise containing the requested payment.” Wexford was, apparently, a prominent member of society caught buying and selling secrets in the past, and who now worked with the government in exchange for keeping his freedom intact. He would be posing as the intended buyer of the illicit thumb drive. “Our job is to catch whomever contacts him to make the arranged sale.”

“Odd the culprit requested a case of cash in person,” John commented. “Very old-school compared to a digital transfer.”

Sherlock was inserting his earplug with an expression of distaste, “Probably knows all too well how easy it is to track a digital transaction, given the circumstances,” he commented.

Mycroft said nothing, but the lemon-sucking expression intensified.

***

The “do” in question was a lavish Christmas charity auction with a Victorian theme, attended by the top one percent of the one percent, in all their glittering glory. It was, apparently, one of the few times someone as rarified as Wexford could make a public appearance in a crowd, unremarked. John, in his cover as an usher, felt distinctly out of place and the urge to say  _guv'nor_ became uncomfortably, un-ironically, strong. Still, it was a mission, and he kept his eyes open.

Sherlock, for his part, played the part of wandering busker, spinning Christmas carols on his violin while sweeping a sharp-eyed gaze across the revelers.

“Nothing yet,” John murmured.

“ _I've spotted two embezzlers_ _,”_ Sherlock reported, “O Holy Night” backing his words, _“And at least six others cheating on their spouses, but nothing more.”_

“ _Nothing this side,”_ Greg Lestrade supplied – he'd been a surprise last-minute addition to the team, at least from John's point of view. He wondered what leverage Mycroft had with Lestrade to so easily bring him in for off-duty shenanigans. Lestrade even had his own costume, a trim grey suit John wished had been his instead.

“ _Wait,”_ Sherlock interjected sharply, transitioning without missing a beat into “The Holly and the Ivy” as he spoke. _“There!”_

***

John shouldered through the crowd, polite excuses added as a spinal-reflex afterthought, but all his attention focused on spotting his quarry. Vaguely, in the background, he was aware that the auction proper had started, a decidedly Father Christmas-ish gent doing the honors.

“What am I bid for these lovely diamond cufflinks . . .?” the auctioneer began, as John stood on tiptoe and cursed genetics for the umpteenth time. He was looking for a particular shade of purple. _Yes, there!_ He forced his way through the press of wealthy elite without a second thought now his target was in sight. 

He followed the flash of purple – a slim woman in a distinctive dress – through the crowd towards the edges of the main room; as the press of bodies thinned he caught sight of the metal valise she carried, containing cash payment for the thumb drive handed off to Wexford, confirming the identity of the suspect. He caught up with her as she slipped backstage, into the area cluttered with donated items destined for the block.

“Stop, police! Sort of!” he called out, and it seemed to work – the woman stopped, and turned to face him. Unfortunately, she was swinging a knife at the same time. Operating on pure spinal reflex, John jumped back out of range; before he could do more a long, black-clad arm shot out from behind him and caught the woman's wrist. Sherlock hadn't been far behind, it appeared. The woman twisted free, only to face John's drawn pistol, leveled in her direction.

Survival at stake, the suspect dropped knife and valise at her sides, raising her hands in surrender. If looks could kill, John and half the inhabitants of the building would be dead, but John didn't waver. Sherlock strode forward, carefully out of John's line of fire (John's lessons in gun safety  _finally_ taking effect) and kicked the knife well off to the side.

Before anything else could happen, Mycroft materialized with two very large men at his side, who were quick to deploy handcuffs and hustle the woman in purple off to, presumably, some form of imprisonment. All very neat and tidy.

John blew out the breath he'd been holding and tucked his pistol back inside his jacket. Even with Mycroft's backing, it wasn't something he wanted to be caught carrying in public. He was just in time, as it turned out.

“Excuse me,” a young, uncertain voice said, “Can I help you gentlemen?” 

They turned as a group to confront a runner for the auction, obviously back to bring another item forward to the stage.

“So sorry,” Mycroft said smoothly, “We seem to have lost our way.” He waved the others toward main room.

***

“I hope it doesn't need to be said that this is an exceptionally sensitive venture,” Mycroft had told John, pulling him aside back in 221B. “Not blog fodder.”

“Understood,” John said, then with a thin smile, added, “Bit of an embarrassment for you and yours, hm? Not something for the higher-ups to hear about?”

Mycroft's glower told him he was correct, and also to drop the subject immediately.

***

They regrouped at one edge of the main room, joining Lestrade, who had been farthest away when the suspect was spotted.

“All good, then?” Lestrade asked.

“All finished and accounted for,” Mycroft began, but then stopped. “Wait, where's the valise?”

Just then, the auctioneer's background patter broke off into dead silence, causing the crowd to murmur.

John and Sherlock traded glances.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the auctioneer said into his microphone, a great deal of emotion in his voice, “It has come to my attention that a most _significant_ donation has been left in secret for us to discover.”

Lestrade, confused, followed everyone else's lead as they turned toward the stage.

The auctioneer was holding the payment valise, with the auction runner – looking more than a little flushed – just behind him.

The auctioneer was almost teary-eyed as he added, “Thank you to our unknown benefactor. This money will go to great use among London's poor. Thank you.”

The audience offered up a polite smattering of applause.

Mycroft looked gobsmacked.

“It appears,” Sherlock said, sounding somewhat strangled, “that the British government has just made an extremely generous donation to charity. Unless you feel like making explanations and compromising your precious secrecy.”

His glance slid sideways and met John's again. They managed to keep straight faces for all of 1.5 seconds, then doubled over in simultaneous, muffled laughter.

Lestrade, grinning, shook his head, then doffed his hat, holding it over his heart. “God bless us,” he began, and stopped. “Oh, come on,” he said, in response to Mycroft's scowl, “someone has to say it, might as well be me. So,” he raised his voice to audible over John and Sherlock's giggling,

“God bless us, every one!”

 

 

 

 


End file.
